Assisi,
in that still, deep peace of yours,
with
soul transfixed by what the self devises,
I
am not still, but think what anger rises
from
Tescio’s rugged bed between her shores.
The
thirsty twistings of the river bear
a
foam white with the fury of that thirst.
Like
conflagrations which aspire to burst,
olive
trees on the verges claw the air.
And
in the distant whiteness of the fresh
worshipping
breath of vespers I can see
the
deviance inherent in desires.
I
also see St Francis’ hectic flesh
burned
by the demon of carnality—
and
bleeding on the roses in the briars.
(translated
by Alan Marshfield)
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